i opened my trusty old mailbox that sits at the street and
found among the junkyard of paper, three letters.
letters. handwritten. stamped.
all addressed to dear me.
all in one day.
letters from three of my favorite people,
each thanking me for the small gesture of friendship,
on an early spring day
blueberries in hand, i visited two of my friends the week before,
for no reason in particular, except i had not seen them in awhile.
we sat, listened, laughed, remembered
and the gift was mine —
time to study not the clock but their faces, time to meet not a deadline but our minds, after an extended absence.
what treasures these friends are to me, i thought as i drove home,
unaware that both would that day
set down on paper in their own scrawl what
my gesture meant to them.
and send it on.
the third note, filled with colorful squiggles
drawn by my favorite three-year-old (and the pen of her mother)
was in celebration of something good we had done together.
those squiggles on envelope and note tell me that one day when that funny three-year-old can write words,
she, too, will set words to paper in
her own scrawl, seal, stamp
then send it on,
for someone dear to find
in a rusty old mailbox at the street,
for no reason in particular
which is reason, well enough